Notoriously, Steele
by Madeleine Gilbert
Summary: S5; Steele Inseparable, Pt. 6. In S2, Steele tried to use the plot of Hitchcock's Notorious to solve a case in Acapulco, only to have it blow up in his face. This time it's the Ligurian Alps, and no room for error if he's going to save Laura's life.
1. Chapter 1

STEELE INSEPARABLE VI: Notoriously, Steele

AUTHOR: Madeleine Gilbert

SYNOPSIS: S5, set in the _Steele Inseparable _universe, sometime after "Steele in the Shadows". In Season 2, Remington tried to use a plot point from Hitchcock's _Notorious_ to solve a case in Acapulco, only to have it blow up in his face. This time the setting is the Ligurian Alps…and there's no margin for error if he's going to save Laura's life.

SHARES A UNIVERSE WITH/OCCURS AFTER: Part I, "Steele in Perspective'; Part II, "Steele-In-Law"; Part III, "Ancestral Steele"; Part IV, "Steele in the Shadows"

DISCLAIMER: This story is not for profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author does not own the rights to these characters and is not now, nor ever has been, affiliated in any way with _Remington Steele_, its producers, its actors and their agents, MTM productions, the NBC television network, or with any station or network carrying the show in syndication.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm offering this unabashedly as a "Laura-in-peril" story. And a "Steele-saving-the-day-in-a-tux" story. And, I hope, a love story, one that approximates the essence of Remington Steele: witty banter, the battle between the sexes, intrigue, danger and romance.

Some, but not all, of the setting is utterly fictitious.

The Ligurian Alps and the Italian Riviera certainly exist. Pramaggiore does not, though it is a surname used in the Italian region known as Liguria. The Italian province of Imperia, in which I've located Pramaggiore, is governed by a president. As far as I know, no President Nicolas Giamberto lives or has ever served there.

L'Hôpital Saint-Sauveur in Menton is another product of my imagination, as is the poison _la belle assassine silencieuse._ The symptoms and effects are a combination of those of a few old-fashioned, deadly botanicals.

That the Nazis occupied Liguria for two years during the Second World War is an historical fact. Though there was widespread suffering, the Ligurian resistance movement was so successful that some cities, such as Genoa, had already freed themselves when Allied troops landed.

For those reading a _Steele Inseparable _story for the first time, Armand Lortie is a character name mentioned in "Ancestral Steele", chapter 7. He was one of Steele's partners in a smuggling business back in the days before Steele met Laura, when he operated on the French Riviera as Jean Murrell.

As always, additional characters from outside the RS canon, apart from historic personages, are fictional and created by the author. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

**NOTE: The original, hard copy version of this short story is formatted without chapter breaks. I've divided it into four parts for easier reading.**

* * *

"This," said Remington Steele, "had better not be what I think it is."

His wife, Laura Steele, looked up from the case notes she was transcribing, a faraway expression in her brown eyes.

That was probably because it was several hours since she'd ticked the item in question off her list of tasks to accomplish. He knew her well enough to know that she needed a second both to recall it to memory and to focus on his tall figure leaning against her door jamb. "Depends on what you think it is," she replied.

"I bloody well know what it is." He moved a few steps into her office to wave an envelope under her nose. "It's a telegram to Amanda Castagnoli. You're going to Pramagiorre by yourself to look for Ava Rivaro, aren't you?"

With a sigh she put down her pencil and leaned back in her chair. "We've been through this, Mr. Steele."

She was right. They had been through it, and through it, and through it yet again. Two days of debating it back and forth, to be precise.

It had begun when Julia Gittelman, née Rivaro, enlisted Remington Steele Investigations' help in finding her sister, Ava.

"You remember what she was like at school, Laura," Julia had said almost as soon as she sat down with them in Remington's office. Lengthy introductions were unnecessary; Remington had met her at his and Laura's wedding. "Driven. Responsible. More like you than me. She should've been the older sister, instead of three years younger. I was always the spontaneous one, the free spirit--"

"—And the most talented contralto in Stanford Glee Club history," Laura had put in, smiling.

"That's sweet of you. Anyway, Ava hasn't changed a bit. So for her to leave her job with Amanda Castagnoli three weeks ago without telling anybody in the family first…there has to be something wrong."

"You said it was from this Amanda Castagnoli you found out your sister had resigned without notice?" asked Remington.

Julia had nodded. "I got a letter yesterday. Amanda wanted to know if I'd help her find a new secretary. She said she misses Ava a lot, and to give her her best."

"She didn't know where Ava had gone?" Laura said.

Julia shook her head. "She asked for her address so she could write to her." She glanced at the Steeles in turn. Tears brimmed in her black eyes. "Laura, Remington…I'm afraid for my sister. I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do."

Seated on the sofa beside her friend, Laura had wrapped an arm around her. Remington had said, "You've already taken the first step by coming to us. But let's talk more about her job. It's the best place to start, since it's where you last heard from her."

"She's been working for Amanda for nine months. Was working. Amanda's an old friend of our mother's--their parents came over from the same town in Italy, Pramagiorre. That's where Amanda lives now."

"And she offered Ava a position as her secretary," Laura said.

"Her husband's been in the diplomatic corps for a long time, and she needs someone to organize her. Her secretaries are always American—she says it helps keep her memories of living here fresh."

"Your sister got on with her, as far as you know?" asked Remington.

"Oh, yes. Ava loved her job. She majored in history—you remember, Laura--and she always wanted to research our family's roots in Liguria. She thought she'd maybe write a book about them one day. Working in Pramagiorre was perfect for her on so many levels."

Laura posed another question, but Remington didn't hear it. He'd turned to the window, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets.

Liguria.

Not a name that conjured up pleasant associations. A place, in fact, that he never cared to see again. And a people he'd once been warned to avoid at all costs.

He'd swung back to the women so abruptly that they looked up in surprise. "Pramagiorre's in Liguria?" he'd demanded.

"Between the Mediterranean and the Alps," replied Julia. "Not far from the Italian Riviera, but not really part of it."

"I was just asking Julia if she'd contacted the Italian authorities about Ava, and what they had to say." Laura's eyes had traveled inquiringly over his face while she spoke. He should have expected that. There wasn't much she missed these days when it came to gauging his mood.

"Only the U.S. Consulate in Milan. They checked the major hospitals, but she wasn't a patient at any of them. They said it was all they could do. I thought maybe you'd know who else to call---the police in Pramagiorre, or—I don't know…"

"I'm afraid we'd have done exactly what the consulate has," Remington had responded gently. "We can also check the records out of Genoa to see if she departed by air, or by the nearest train. But I don't believe it'll tell us much about her actual whereabouts."

Laura had agreed. "It's tough, tracking a missing person long distance. We'd have a much better chance of success if we went to Italy ourselves."

Heart-wrenching, it had been, the hope that transformed Julia's downcast face. "Would you? If only---I didn't like to ask—but I wasn't sure if we could swing your fees--"

Gripping her friend's hand, Laura had hushed her. "The important thing is finding out what's happened to Ava. But first we have to work on the logistics. For instance, access to Mrs. Castagnoli. I think you can help us with that. Do you agree, Mr. Steele?"

Naturally he and Laura were on the same wavelength. "The secretary position."

"Exactly. Julia, what about this? Propose me to Mrs. Castagnoli as a candidate for Ava's job. Say I'm an old school friend…Susan Vance."

"And I'd be her husband, David Huxley," Remington had added.

"It's a great idea, except for one thing," Julia had replied. "Amanda has a policy. She only hires single women. They travel a lot, and her secretary's on call sixteen hours a day sometimes. That kind of schedule puts too much strain on a marriage, she says."

When he thought it over later, Remington realized he should've seen it coming. A friend in trouble, a challenging mystery, a cover story almost tailor-made: it was too tempting a mix for Laura to pass up.

"Tell her I'm single," she'd said. "We'll worry about Remington's cover when she offers me the job."

* * *

On the way to Beverly Hills for dinner at L'Ornate that evening, still unsuspecting, he'd proposed some possible covers for himself. A service position of some kind in the household, similar to his turn eight months ago as Ruggles, butler to the filthy rich Wellingtons? A member of Signor Castagnoli's personal staff?

"Perfect, if we could swing it," Laura had replied. "But I don't see how. The profile Mildred put together says Alessandro Castagnoli served until six months ago as the assistant undersecretary to the Italian Consulate in Austria. And now there's talk he'll be appointed ambassador to Belgium. He's not exactly hiring people through the want ads."

"Well, then, I could pose as David Huxley, English tourist. We could make sure our paths crossed publicly and pretend to strike up a friendship."

"From what Julia said, it sounds like Mrs. Castagnoli discourages her secretaries from relationships with the opposite sex."

As usual her logic was irrefutable. He'd abandoned the topic for the duration of the ride, though he continued to turn it over in his mind. Once dinner had been served he made a third suggestion. "What about this? I'll come with you as far as Menton and stay at the villa. Far enough away that I won't arouse suspicion, close enough to be a sounding board when you need it. Another pair of eyes and ears."

She'd glanced up from her _poulet aux noisettes_. "You could do that." There was a pause as she finished a bite, her expression thoughtful. "Then again, you might just as easily do it from here."

* * *

Later at home she'd demanded, "You're not seriously expecting me to believe you want to come all the way to Menton to do legwork, are you? You? The king of avoidance? The master of transparent excuses?"

Trailing her to the bathroom, he'd leaned against the door jamb, arms folded, while she removed her makeup. "How else do you suppose it'll get done? You seem to forget that a job as Signora Castagnoli's secretary, cover or not, means she'll expect something of you. Work, I believe it's called."

"Hilarious."

"Not to mention that handling the case on your own means it'll take twice as long. At the rate you're proposing, I imagine you'll have it wrapped up by--oh, let's make a prediction. Easter?"

"So instead you'll go poking around, an outsider, uninvited. You might as well wear a sign on your back that says 'suspicious character'."

"That's what I love about you. Always willing to accord my skills the respect they deserve."

She'd slammed a bottle of moisturizer down on the counter and turned to face him. "Don't think I don't know what this is really about, Remington." And she'd pushed past him to begin turning down the bed with emphatic movements, ones that plainly announced her aggravation with him.

He'd joined her. "We're there already, are we? Probing my deep, dark motives so you don't have to admit you're wrong?"

"There's nothing deep or dark about it. I can read you like a book."

"I'm sure you'd like to think so." Deftly he'd caught the extra pillow she tossed him.

"Not that I need to, because it's the same old story over and over again. It's too risky for me without you. You're putting your foot down. If you ask me, it's downright confusing."

"What is?"

"Why someone as smart as you needs such a long learning curve." She'd stood a moment, hands on hips, sizing him up. "Well? Are you taking a shower or not? I'm not waiting around for you all night."

* * *

"All I'm saying is, it's a part of the world where you shouldn't be on your own, Liguria," he'd said as he maneuvered the Auburn westward into morning rush hour traffic on Wilshire.

"Why not?"

"For starters, you don't speak the language."

"That never stopped me in Acapulco. Or Cannes, or Malta."

"You don't know a soul there."

The look in her eyes had informed him how ridiculous he was being.

"It's a dangerous place, okay? These aren't the Swiss Alps, Laura, cuckoo clocks, chocolate and Saint Bernards. Ligurians live by a different code. They protect one another against all comers. Slight one, and you've slighted them all. And they don't suffer strangers easily."

Her eyebrows lifted. "How would you know?"

* * *

"Tiberio Malatesta."

The mere name was enough to send a chill up Remington's spine; as it passed his lips, he'd shifted slightly beneath the bedclothes. "I never met him in person. To this day I've never so much as seen a photograph of him. But he'll always stand out head and shoulders as the closest I've come to dealing with the devil incarnate."

It was late, after midnight, but neither one of them had been able to sleep. Not for the reason one might have guessed, the arguing: disagreements had been part of the fabric of their relationship entirely too long for that. It was the uneasiness he'd been carrying around since Julia Gittelman's visit. By now it had communicated itself from him to Laura.

Somehow the cover of night and her presence beside him in bed made it possible for him to be honest about the source of the uneasiness.

He'd half-anticipated that she would dismiss the confession as hyperbole. He was wrong. Arms crossed on his chest, chin resting on them, she'd gazed at him soberly. "Who was he?"

"The head of a Genoan shipping family, if the newspapers were to be believed. Strip away the euphemisms and the reality was far darker."

"Smugglers."

He'd nodded. "They'd been at it so long and grown so large it was almost a form of legitimacy. Entrenched enough, you'd have thought, that he'd no need to pay attention to smaller fry…or consider them competition."

"You pulled a scam on him?"

"An innocent bystander. I didn't dare go any further. I'd been warned about him, you see. My old mate, Armand Lortie. He was born and raised on the Côte d'Azur. He recognized the cut of Malatesta's cloth, so to speak."

His innate story-telling ability had been in full spate by that point. Laura had drunk his words in, spellbound, if the intent look in her eyes was any indication.

"There were some young…entrepreneurs…who weren't so lucky," he went on. "From Toulon or Sainte-Maxime, I think they were. To them it was a lark, cutting into his territory, trading him inferior cargo. I happened to be in San Remo with them the night it fell apart. Not all of them were killed that night. But before six months went by, the rest were dead. Eight men, Laura. Slaughtered in unspeakable ways, every last one."

"Wait a minute." Skepticism had wakened her from the spell. "You're telling me this man—Malatesta—committed eight murders in less than a year?"

"His kin, his…peers, I suppose you'd say…would've taken care of that. After all, he was a Genoan. A Ligurian. Double cross one, and you've double crossed them all. I doubt whether Malatesta had to lift a finger. But he was behind it. I never questioned it for a moment. And I made damned sure not to breathe a word to anyone about the little I saw that night."

It had been on the tip of his tongue to add, Now? Now do you see? It isn't quite what you thought, is it? Not the overprotectiveness you've resented so much, perhaps with good reason, and that I promised to control the night it lost us Antony Roselli. I've a valid objection this time. And _you _promised that you'd pay attention, and not brush me aside, when that was the case.

But he was a firm believer that a judiciously chosen silence was often more eloquent than words. After all, Laura was so very quick on the uptake. And her own silence seemed to indicate that she'd understood what he was getting at by sharing his experience with Malatesta.

At last, he'd thought with a surge of relief. At last she was taking his misgivings seriously.

* * *

The crackle of the telegram between his fingers operated on him like a dash of cold water in the face.

She'd been humoring him last night. Or—unheard of for Laura--outright deceiving him. Either way, it was obvious that she'd made up her mind without reference to his input. Brushed him aside. Treated him as if he didn't count.

Probably she'd known all along what she was going to do. Probably she'd decided the moment Julia had departed their office the other day.

Blazing anger choked off his voice. He turned his back on her and slammed into his office.

And refused to look up when she slipped through the door a few minutes later. Or when she said, "It isn't what you think, Remington. It's not."

"I'd appreciate it if you stopped assuming you know what I'm thinking, Mrs. Steele." He continued to scribble furiously on the pad of paper before him.

"Well, it's not like we haven't had this fight before."

At least she hadn't bragged that she could read him like a book.

"I get why you don't want me to go alone. I get it could be a dangerous job. Ordinarily I'd say I'm with you a hundred per cent, there's no way I'm going over there without you."

"And I'd say your actions speak louder than your words."

"Because you're missing the big picture. Would you just look at me a minute?"

Deliberately he remained bent over the pad for a few moments longer before pushing his chair back, crossing his feet on the desk and fixing her with a stare that managed to be both ironic and disdainful.

She ignored it as she paced up and down the office. "Help me with this. Maybe I'm going off the deep end, I don't know. Remember what Julia said about Ava, why she was excited to be working in Pramagiorre? It was a chance to research her family's roots."

His nod was stiff, unwilling to give an inch.

"Then…given the lengths Malatesta went to when he was cheated…isn't it possible that Ava stumbled into the same kind of situation? She found something she shouldn't, or made someone angry, and that's why she disappeared?"

The big picture, indeed. How like Laura to see it, as well as the fine connections within it. He was beginning to cool down in spite of himself.

"They're unforgiving of strangers, you said. Quick to take revenge."

He climbed to his feet. "And they stop at nothing to get it. At least Malatesta didn't."

"That's why I'm sending the telegram to Amanda Castagnoli. One of us needs to get over there before the trail goes cold. And since I'm the one with the cover, or will be, I'm the most logical choice."

"Of course you are." He couldn't quite suppress the sarcasm.

She heaved a sigh. "I get that it's a dangerous place, all right? But according to what you said last night, it's just as dangerous for you as it is for me. Maybe more so. We don't know who or what we're up against. Let me get the lay of the land. Then we can decide our next move."

It must have showed in his face, the protest he was about to make, for she came over and put her arms around him. "I know you hate it. How would you handle it, if you were in my shoes? I've known Julia since I was eighteen, and Ava almost as long. Should I refuse to help because there's risk involved? What kind of friend would that make me? What kind of detective?"

Anguish throbbed in her low, clear voice. Had it been there all along? If so, he'd been blocking his ears to it.

But now it jolted him to self awareness. Over the past few days he'd been putting his needs, his desires, at the center of the issue. And, in a classic case of transference, he'd suspected her, wrongly, of the same, of game-playing, even pre-meditated deception. In the process he'd lost sight of the point of the exercise.

But Laura…Laura never had.

He knew then that he wouldn't stand in her way any more.

Continued in Part 2


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

Three afternoons later, he saw her off to Nice.

It was an unusual route to take; the more sensible would've been flying direct to Genoa. But they'd decided she should spend the first night in Menton, at the villa Daniel had left Remington. The following day she would cross the border to Italy and establish a home base of sorts at the inn in Ventimiglia where Mildred had booked her a room. Alessandro Castagnoli's personal secretary was supposed to meet her in the afternoon and escort her to Pramagiorre. If all went well, she'd be installed as Ava Rivaro's replacement by nightfall.

After that? Improvisation, all of it. Not a circumstance with which they were completely comfortable, Laura because of her instinctive drive to work out every contingency beforehand, Remington because it left open too many cracks through which he might lose track of her. Her promise to check in with him at least once a day was only mildly reassuring at best.

Running beneath their discomfort was the consciousness that, excepting the four months in '85 when he'd searched for his real name, this would be the longest they'd ever been separated.

At the departure gate he waited with her for the preliminary boarding call. Conversation was light, superficial, touching mainly on the day-to-day running of the agency during her absence and their plans for the upcoming Christmas holidays. Surprising that it wasn't devoted to a last-minute caucus on the Rivaro case. Then again, perhaps not. Neither of them was concentrating well enough for that.

At last the flight was announced. She rose and reached for her carry-on bag to find he had already picked it up. They stood together, irresolute.

"Got your passport?" he asked. It was a lame attempt to stave off the inevitable parting.

She gave him a look.

"I meant, your Susan Vance passport."

"How could I forget it? It's a work of art, not to mention essential to my cover."

He smiled. He was justifiably proud of that passport, along with the others. Ten in all, there were, five for Laura, five for him. In a fit of whimsy he'd commissioned the set several months ago. More than just replacements for the Bogart passports confiscated by Scotland Yard the previous year, these had a symbolism that pleased him. Retired for good, his old aliases, the ones culled from Bogart movies, the last traces of his former life. From now on he would play David Huxley to Laura's Susan Vance; John Case to her Linda Seton; Charles Kady-Haven--a substitute for the too-obvious C. K. Dexter Haven--to her Tracy Lord; and, more obscurely, Jim Monkley or Walter Burns when she was Terry Randall or Tess Harding. The passports weren't for official use. Nowadays he traveled legally between countries as Remington Steele. But they served the dual purpose of private joke and convincing ID documents.

He and Laura were loitering their way towards the check-in counter. His hand had dropped to the small of her back and lingered, his old, silent shorthand for telling other men, and her, that she belonged to him.

"You'll ring as soon as you land in London?" he asked.

"It'll be two a.m. your time."

"Never mind that. I'll be waiting."

"Okay."

"And again when you get to Menton."

"At home or the agency?"

"The agency. I don't imagine you'll arrive at the villa much before seven."

As they got into line together, Laura's arm slid around his waist, only to be withdrawn a few seconds later. "Oh, my goodness," she said.

"What's wrong?"

"I meant to leave it at home. I completely forgot." While she spoke, she was removing her wedding band. She laid it in his palm. "Here."

Accepting it touched off a strange reaction in him. A chill? A shudder? He couldn't rightly name it. In general he wasn't a superstitious man. But suddenly her action seemed fraught with foreboding.

He absent from her side. His ring off her finger.

What was there left to protect her?

Laura had noticed nothing. "—Obviously I can't wear it while I'm undercover," she was saying. "And I don't want to take a chance on losing it. Hang onto it for me." She took his hand in both of hers and gently closed it over the ring. "And if you end up having to come over, bring it with you."

A moment of deep quiet between them despite the noise and crowds. "I can do that," he said.

Their farewell was equally quiet. Though there were a handful of occasions in the past when emotion had carried them away, they tended to avoid overt demonstrations of affection in public. Besides, they'd communicated what needed to be said last night, and again this morning, through their hands and mouths and joined bodies.

So he merely traced a gentle finger along her jaw line before tipping up her chin. Her hands were curved at the back of his neck; he could feel her lightly rumple the hair that lay over his collar. To an outsider the kiss they exchanged probably looked offhand, almost nonchalant.

"I love you," she said in an undertone, for his ears alone.

He nodded. "Be careful, eh?"

That was all. She glanced back at him over her shoulder as she entered the jet way, and he lifted a hand in response. Then she was gone.

He only thought them, the words that would've sounded too flowery, too dramatic, if he'd uttered them aloud: Come back to me safe, my dearest love.

* * *

It wasn't until half past eleven the next day that she rang him from Menton. He caught up the receiver as soon as a beaming Mildred stuck her head into the office alert him. "Ah, Mrs. Steele. Lovely to be able to hear your lilting voice." This an allusion to her earlier two-in-the-morning call from London, which had been riddled with static and had to be rushed.

"I could say the same about your Irish music, Mr. Steele."

"Could you, indeed." He settled back in his usual lounging posture, feet crossed on the desk. "How was the drive?"

"Not bad. Not as busy as it was in July. Same kind of weather, though. I guess there's a November heat wave all across the Riviera."

"Packed your swimsuit, didn't you? Get some use out of the pool while you're there."

"I'll try. I'm leaving for Ventimiglia at ten in the morning, remember."

"Has Madeleine shown up?" Madeleine Trottier, the caretaker's wife, served in the dual capacity of cook and housekeeper.

"She's making dinner even as we speak."

"Splendid. Then you'll have had at least one good home-cooked meal before you face Amanda Castagnoli tomorrow. Almost as good as if I was cooking it for you."

"I'll just have to make do." He could hear the smile in her voice. "There are some areas where you can't be replaced, you know."

"I'll bear that in mind."

Easy talk flowed for a while, the kind that had been habitual between them for years, part and parcel of their friendship. But he broke off in the middle of a sentence when she yawned. "Better have dinner so you can get some sleep," he said. "Ring me tomorrow as soon as you know something, will you?"

"Okay." She yawned again. "It's weird, being here without you."

"I know what you mean." The transatlantic line buzzed faintly during the brief silence. Then he said, "Sleep well, my love."

With the receiver replaced in the cradle, he swiveled his chair around to face the window, though from a seated position he could see little more than the sky.

No matter, for his mind was far away.

Five thousand, seven hundred miles away, to be exact, give or take a few. In a pink stucco villa perched halfway up a hill off the rue Ferdinand Bac, north of Menton's harbor, with a feisty, brown-eyed little baggage who was enjoying a final evening of security before sticking her neck into the lion's den.

It was going to be a long four weeks.

* * *

"I'm in," Laura announced with audible satisfaction the next morning.

"Excellent work. Not that the outcome was ever in doubt," Remington replied.

It was only eight o'clock; she'd surmised correctly that he hadn't yet departed Windsor Square for the office. The truth was, after a fitful night, he'd arisen early and had already been at his drawing table for almost two hours. The inability to sleep alone that he'd discovered in Menton in July was no isolated fluke. He wasn't sure whether to be comforted by his consistency or worried that he'd gone soft.

But then he lost himself in the pleasure of listening to her voice as she recounted the details of her interview with Amanda Castagnoli and the particulars of the job. "You do realize what this means, don't you?" he asked when she had finished.

"No, what?"

"You'll actually have to do the work. No way around it, I'm afraid."

"I can handle it. I've done it before."

"You have?"

"How else do you think I knew I didn't want to be a secretary? Anyway, I think what sealed the deal is my friendship with Julia and Ava. She seems genuinely fond of them. And she's already volunteered information about how Ava fit into the household. I have a feeling this trip's going to pay off in spades."

"What's she like?"

"Gracious. Charming. Beautiful manners. The perfect diplomat's wife."

"The husband's secretary?

"Him I'm not so sure about. Benedetto La Rosa. Younger than I expected. Very polished, though."

"How about the husband?"

"I haven't seen him. But get this. Those rumors that he'll be named ambassador to Belgium? They're basically true. They're throwing a party three weeks from now to celebrate. Apparently he's in tight with the president of the province, so it's going to be a huge affair. Which means I'll have my hands full, learning the ropes." And she laughed a little ruefully.

"Won't you have any time to yourself? You'll need it for working the case."

"Enough to get the job done. Don't worry, Mr. Steele. I'll make sure our personal sacrifice for the sake of the business doesn't go in vain."

She wrapped up the call by telling him that she'd declined Signora Castagnoli's invitation to stay at the house. The Terrazza dei Viale--the inn in Ventimiglia—was the alternative she preferred, for it would give her the freedom to move about Pramaggiore as needed over the course of the investigation. "Besides, it's very romantic. Marble floors, a fireplace…even a private little patio off the bedroom. You'd love it." A wistful note slipped into her voice. "Maybe we can come back someday."

"Perhaps after Christmas, eh? We'll make a point of it."

The following days formed themselves into an established pattern. Around ten, before he retired for the night, he would phone the inn, catching her just as she got up. In the morning he received a call from her, after she'd returned from a day at the office at the _casa_ Castagnoli.

They quickly became an emotional lifeline, those conversations. The physical distance galvanized an openness they couldn't always manage when they were together. He found to his surprise that he could be a little less oblique than was his wont in admitting how much he missed her, yearned for her. Even more surprising was that Laura not only accepted the sentiments but returned them in kind. It likely wasn't a permanent change, but it was satisfying to the soul—and an effective balm for loneliness-- while it lasted.

In the meantime she was making steady progress in her search for Ava. Mildred had taken on the task of checking possible departures by train or plane, so Laura was able to focus on Pramagiorre's immediate vicinity. Most of the answers she got were negatives. No one had rented a car to Ava or offered her a ride. None of the Castagnoli's vehicles were unaccounted for. No one had seen her hitchhiking; there had been no newcomers to town with whom she might have departed. And, if she'd left on foot, it would've been with the burden of three full suitcases, since all her things had gone missing with her.

"Ava's genealogical research. It has to be the key," she mused at the end of week two. "The problem is her notes have vanished with her. You're the expert on tracking family on the Continent, Mr. Steele. Any suggestions as to the resources she might've used?"

"Well, the obvious. The local library, if there is one. The city hall. One slight problem, though. You don't read Italian."

"You'd be surprised at the progress I'm making. And I'm sure I can find a reliable translator if I need one. Anything else?"

"Is there a parish church?"

"Not two miles away. San Giovanni Batista. Saint John the Baptist?""

"Very good, Laura. Progress, indeed," he teased. "Those old parish churches usually have registers that go back centuries. I'd start there." The memory of just where she was, and in whose personal business she might be interfering, hit him afresh; he felt an accompanying twinge of apprehension. "Caution, my love, okay? Don't trust anyone, no matter how harmless they may seem."

By the next afternoon, several volumes of San Giovanni Batista's parish records were in her possession, going as far back as nineteen twenty. Quite a coup, they would usually have considered it, but Laura sounded troubled rather than triumphant in her morning call to him. "It's something Father Facchini said. Just an off-the-cuff-remark. I don't think he meant anything by it."

"What did he say?"

"He can't understand the attraction these old records seem to have. He isn't even sure what's in them. They hadn't been touched for years, until Signora Castagnoli's last secretary asked if she could study them. Is the skin at the back of your neck beginning to crawl?"

"Yes. I take it yours is, too."

"It has been since I left the church. I'm going to try my best to decipher a couple of these tonight. I'll let you know if I come up with anything."

She rang off.

Much later, in the middle of a preliminary client interview, Mildred buzzed him on the intercom. "Boss? Mrs. Steele's on the line."

He checked his watch. Four o'clock California time. One in the morning for Laura.

Six hours earlier than they would normally have spoken.

Abandoning the client, he was in her office and grabbing the phone before another minute had ticked by. "Laura?"

Her speech was low and rapid, one of the telltale signs that she'd made a crucial leap in a case. "I found them. Ava's notes, or part of them. She must have hidden them in the register for safekeeping. Remington, I was right. She stumbled across something nobody's supposed to know."

"A town secret, like De Nada's?"

"A Castagnoli family secret. An especially nasty one. Collaboration with the Nazis during the War…betrayal of neighbors who were members of the resistance. And the price was the deed to vineyards in the Piedmont, paid to Alessandro Castagnoli and his father, Vittorio."

He sat down heavily in her vacant chair. "All that's in the parish records?"

"It looks like the priest at the time…Father Banca...turned them almost into a diary of the Occupation. How he came by the information, Ava doesn't say. He wouldn't be revealing something one of them told him in confession, would he?"

"Highly unlikely." For an instant he shut his eyes, trying to corral the burgeoning anxiety before it ran away with him. "This is exactly what I was afraid of, you know. I ought to be there backing you up."

"I know. But until I figure out what's happened to Ava…" She trailed off.

He didn't say it aloud, what he was thinking. He didn't have to. Laura was as aware of it as he was. Five weeks had now passed without word from a young woman who was responsible and reliable and close to her family.

A woman who had uncovered information that could destroy a family, a fortune, a political career.

A woman who had done it in Liguria.

And now Laura was following in her footsteps.

The five thousand, seven hundred fifty miles that separated Los Angeles from Pramagiorre were beginning to feel like an immeasurable gulf.

* * *

When the phone rang at three in the morning, Remington wasn't surprised in the slightest. On some subterranean level, he realized, he had been expecting it.

Laura said: "Remington. Someone's been in here."

Once upon a time, he would've asked her how she knew. There would've been an underlying motive in the question, of course. In those days he'd rarely missed a chance to twit her about what he'd termed her mild neuroses, which had served as an endless source of amusement to him.

He'd never felt less like laughing than he did now. "What did they see?"

"I don't know. I took the registers back to Father Facchini early this morning. I sent you copies of the incriminating pages, by the way, along with Ava's original notes. You should have them by tomorrow afternoon."

Extraordinary foresight. He took a split second to admire it.

"What else?" he demanded. "Your passport? The real one?"

"Maybe. It's hidden pretty well, but who knows." A sigh. "I think I'm coming down with stomach flu, on top of everything else."

She sounded unutterably weary. For him it was the tipping point. Bad enough that she was alone in hostile territory. Alone and unable to operate at full strength? Unthinkable.

"Get out of there," he said. Fear for her was roughening his voice. "Get out now. Do you hear, Laura? Get on the first flight, I don't care what it is, Nice, Genoa--"

"--The case--"

"We'll worry about it once you're home."

"I can't leave, Remington. Not until I know what they've done with Ava."

He exploded. "God damn it, Laura--!"

Unidentifiable noises from the other end of the line. He heard her say, not to him, "Who is it?"

Then, into the phone, very low: "Benedetto's here. Hold on."

In a fever of suspense, he did. Footsteps, a short conversation, none of which he could make out.

Finally she was back, speaking hurriedly, just above a whisper. "Amanda wants me up at the house. I'll call as soon as I can."

A click. The unsettling buzz of the empty line.

Seven a.m. came and went. No Laura.

By ten a.m. he had Mildred monitoring all outbound flights from Nice and Genoa and Marseille.

No answer at the Terrazza dei Viale at quarter past ten. Nor at ten thirty, quarter to eleven, eleven o'clock, quarter past eleven, eleven thirty, noon.

In the reception area Mildred had begun to jump for the phone every time it rang. After the first three or four times, all it took was the look in her eyes to tell him, no, the caller wasn't Laura.

At one thirty he was on his way to LAX.

Continued in Part 3


	3. Chapter 3

  

The fourteen hours that comprised the flight to Nice were the longest of Remington's life.

He arrived at the Villa Montreuil in the sedan he'd rented at l'Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur—no BMW convertibles for him this go-round—to find it shuttered and empty. A quick tour of the premises was enough to confirm that if Laura had managed to flee Pramagiorre, she hadn't taken refuge here. It had been a long shot, anyway, he acknowledged to himself.

Or, perhaps, a grasping for hope, any hope at all.

It was close to seven in the evening by the time he reached Ventimiglia. From the proprietors of the Terrazza dei Viale he discovered that they hadn't seen Laura since the previous day. Some fast talking in his excellent Italian, a display of the wedding photos he kept in his wallet to convince them he was, indeed, her husband, and he'd gained access to her room.

It was as she'd described it, a romantic little bower. He barely spared a glance for its amenities, however. Her clothes still hanging in the armoire; her toiletries neatly arranged in the bathroom. Those were all he cared about.

Her purse was missing. But on the bedside table, along with the keys to her rental car, lay her planner. One of the essentials upon which she depended, his methodical, organized wife. He could only pray that its presence here was an oversight, and not a mute harbinger of disaster.

So ingrained in him now was the investigative instinct that he picked it up automatically, scanned the activities she'd penciled in for yesterday and today. On the line for this very hour, seven p.m., the entry in her neat script: _Ambassadorship announcement and celebration_.

The party in honor of Alessandro Castagnoli's impending appointment to the Italian embassy in Belgium. He'd forgotten about it completely.

_Notorious_.

Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Claude Rains. RKO. 1946.

He froze in place, her calendar dangling, forgotten, from his hand. Had he spoken the words aloud? He couldn't remember even thinking them. The film annotation was one to which he'd resorted frequently over the years as a possible solution to particularly difficult cases. In Acapulco he'd even persuaded Laura to act the Ingrid Bergman role—infiltrating a gang of murdering thieves—with near-disastrous results.

Making that connection had been a stretch, he had to admit, grounded more in his love for the film than in its actual correspondence to their circumstances. But now?

He pondered it. Yes, there were similarities, undeniable ones. Eerie, really. The party. Laura's proximity to the family, practically living among them. Her discovery of the truth. Signor Castagnoli, worse than a Nazi sympathizer, an actual collaborator, a man with the blood of who knew how many innocents on his hands…

Including Ava Rivaro's.

And Laura Steele's?

That thought he thrust savagely away.

Perhaps the likeness to _Notorious _went further still. Perhaps, like Bergman's character, Alicia, Laura was being held at the _casa_ Castagnoli against her will.

If that were true…it meant that his role was to get her out.

As for the possibility that he wouldn't find her there, he refused even to entertain it. It would, he suspected, unleash a storm of emotion he couldn't afford. Detachment, icy calm, those were the watchwords for tonight. Nothing, not even thoughts of Laura—especially thoughts of Laura—could be allowed to intrude.

Swiftly he swung into action. Suitcases thrown onto the bed. Her belongings cleared from sitting room and bedroom and bath and packed. The lot hustled into his trunk. Regardless of how events unfolded tonight, he wasn't bringing Laura back here when it was over. Not now. Not ever.

He'd have preferred to shower, but a quick wash and shave would have to do. Donning the tux he'd included in his luggage, he silently blessed Daniel for drumming it into his head that a true gentleman is always prepared for any sartorial contingency. The tux would serve tonight as a disguise of sorts, enabling him to blend in with the crowds once he'd gotten into the house. At least that's what he hoped it would do.

He'd spent just under twenty minutes in Ventimglia. With the lodging bill settled and Laura's car left behind for later disposition, he was on the road to Pramagiorre.

The town, he found, was set on a gentle rise between steeper hillsides. Castagnoli's mansion commanded a section of a high plateau to the northwest, set against a backdrop of woodland and the rise of another hill.

Carefully he chose a spot for the sedan at the outer edge of the broad sweep of lawn before the mansion. Those who had preceded him had doubtless parked with an eye for convenience. His was a different purpose altogether: a quick getaway.

He tossed the topcoat he'd worn in Los Angeles and London, but didn't need here, into the back seat. Then, in deliberate contravention of his impulse to rush, to race forward as fast as he could in search of Laura, he merged smoothly into the shadows and slid through them to the rear of the house.

Moments later, he was assessing the covered terrace on the ground floor and the second floor loggia that surmounted it. Amazing how easy it had been to get to this point, and that no one seemed to be about. The walls here were faced with rough stones that felt like granite beneath his questing fingertips, the mortar that joined them worn away in places. Perfect hand- and footholds, in other words, for a man of his experience and ability. Nor was the tux a detriment. He'd successfully pulled off scores of jobs, even hundreds, in evening wear.

He began to climb.

In a corner of the loggia he paused to get his breath and his bearings. There was a series of French doors which he deduced led to bedrooms, six of them. Lights shone through the windows of two; the rest, probably unoccupied, were fair game for unforced entry.

He'd bypassed two after ascertaining they were locked, was about to slip past the third when movement from within the room captured his eye.

Someone curled on the bed…someone rolling from side to side.

No: writhing in pain.

He'd leapt forward to wrench open the door and found that it, too, was locked before his shocked brain processed the fact that it was Laura he saw.

Laura, in a dark blue evening gown and high-heeled silver sandals unfamiliar to him.

Glass exploded inward, he would never remember quite how; he was through the doorway, across the room, on the bed, catching her in his arms.

Where were they now, his detachment, his icy calm? Flown. He heard his voice, frantic, words tumbling over one another, asking her what was wrong, to show him where it hurt, assuring her he was there, he'd got her, everything would be all right.

There was recognition in her glance; her lips formed his name, soundless. She could manage no more than that. The way she was hunched over, rigid, arms wrapped around her middle, was the only clue he had to go on. With one hand he massaged her abdomen in firm circles, torn between the urge to go for help and deep unwillingness to leave her.

The unwillingness won out.

At last the pains seemed to decrease in intensity, until they tapered off altogether. Free of their grip, Laura relaxed, struggling to slow her breathing; he pulled her more closely into the curve of his body and spooned there with her, waiting for his heart to stop slamming in his chest.

He knew she was feeling better when her hands came up and closed over his arms, stroking them, as if to make sure he was real. "You're here," she said wonderingly. "You're here. How did you know where to--"

"—find you? I didn't, exactly. It was only that they hadn't seen you at the inn and I remembered what you'd said about the party. It put me in mind of _Notorious_. Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman--"

"—RKO, 1946. I might've known. I guess there is a parallel, though the Castagnolis aren't actually Nazis…"

"Collaborators. Close enough." He tightened his embrace, touched his lips to her hair, rocked her slightly. "My God, Laura, are you all right? I was starting to imagine they'd done away with you. What are you doing here?"

"Things have been so busy Amanda asked me to stay over."

"Why didn't you call and let me know?"

"I couldn't. There isn't a single private phone in the house. And, Remington…Benedetto's been watching me."

The idea was more ominous than an overt physical threat would've been. "Watching you. That's all? It doesn't make sense."

"I don't understand it, either. I'm sure they're onto me. But no one's made a move." She paused to yawn; when she resumed, a wry note had slipped into her voice. "The only threat right now is from this intestinal bug, or whatever it is. I can't seem to shake it. Not even bottled water is helping."

"You don't mean to say you've had pains like these for two days."

"Just tonight. They got so bad that Benedetto had to help me up here."

"What else have you had to eat or drink besides water?"

"Just toast and coffee. I've been kind of living on coffee for the past few days." She gestured, yawning, towards a buffet along the wall opposite the foot of the bed. It held a warmer and carafe.

He frowned. Of course he was no doctor, but it didn't make sense that the little she'd eaten should have provoked such violent stomach cramps. "Feeling better now, aren't you?"

"Mm-hm."

"Take it easy for a few minutes more, just to make sure. Did you bring other clothes with you?"

"Some things in the armoire."

"We'll get you changed and out of here as soon as you're up to it." While he spoke he was leaning over and removing her shoes in an effort to make her more comfortable.

It was then he discovered her feet were ice cold.

He let the shoes drop to the floor, not hearing the thump each made as they landed one after the other.

The night was as warm as bath water; the breeze that blew softly through the window he'd broken was from the west. Nor could the house's proximity to the mountains explain why her feet—which he'd begun to rub without realizing he was doing so—should have held such a chill.

For a while he kept rubbing, though little by little it became clear it was doing her no good.

A faint tug at his memory, something to do with stomach pains and freezing feet, freezing hands and sleep…

He reached for Laura's hands, feeling their backs and fingers and palms.

Cold.

…Freezing feet and hands and sleep…

She'd been drinking bottled water, she'd said. And eaten nothing but bread.

His eyes went round the room, passed over the warmer and its carafe, returned, lingered.

Coffee, he thought. _Coffee_.

Laura's voice: "I've been practically living on coffee for the past few days."

In _Notorious_, Sebastian and his mother had mixed the poison with Alicia's coffee.

Abruptly he rolled off the bed to cross the room and pour out a cup. It didn't do to taste it, but he didn't smell anything out of the ordinary, either. Cup in hand, he wavered.

…Stomach pains. Cold hands and feet. Sleep.

A glance at Laura's half-hidden face showed him that her lashes lay in a dark semi-circle against her cheek.

Don't let her go to sleep, warned a voice from inside his head.

The impression that had been flitting at the edge of his memory slipped into place. The smuggler from Toulon, Olivier something, dead on the bed in the fetid little room in San Remo, passed away in silence after the stomach pains, the shivering and the complaints he was cold, though outside was a typical July evening on the Riviera.

His partner in the Cuillerier et fils con, Armand Lortie: "….Ligurians--you don't want to mess about with them,Jean. They're not like the southerners, flare up, knock your block off and then seconds afterward pay for your round of _grappa_. These'll smile into your eyes all the while they're slipping the stiletto between your ribs--and they've the longest memories of anyone I've ever known. My advice to you, _mon vieux_, is run as fast as you can in the other direction when you see one coming."

Don't let her go to sleep, the voice insisted.

This time he heeded it. For a second he thought the battle was already lost. Beside her on the bed, he gave her a little shake and then scooped her into his arms. "Laura." Even to his own ears his voice was sharp with fear. "Laura, wake up."

Good: she was opening her eyes. He stared down into them intently, trying to make her focus. "Can you hear me? Stay with me, baby. Don't pass out."

She was making soft protesting noises and snuggling closer to him. "This feels so good," she murmured.

"Listen, listen to me. If you fall asleep, if you pass out, you won't wake up again. Do you hear? You won't wake up. Don't go to sleep. Okay?"

Apparently his urgency had penetrated the fog just a little. Her gaze on him seemed steadier. "Okay."

"There's my girl. Now, can you keep looking at me? Good, excellent. What's my name?"

"…Remington."

"And my other name?"

Rather a trick question, he realized, but one that would make her think, which was what he was shooting for. Sure enough, there was that little wrinkle of concentration he loved so well. A smile flickered on her lips. "…Too many to choose from."

"The one I like best."

"…John."

"The very one. Keep looking at me. That's it. My father's name?"

"…Daniel."

"And how many weddings did we have, you and I?" She was drifting again, eyelids drooping; he gave her another of those little shakes. "No, don't go to sleep. Look at me. Our wedding, how many times?"

This time it took her longer to reply. "…Two."

He was pulling something from an inside pocket of his tux jacket. "Look what I have here, Laura."

It was her wedding ring. At the sight of it, tears she was too weak to restrain shone in her eyes. "You remembered."

"Of course I did. I'm not likely to forget it." He slid the ring onto her finger, then kissed her hand. "Back where it belongs, and not a moment too soon."

"..I never should've taken it off in the first place. Or insisted on coming without you. I'm sorry."

"Nonsense. You've nothing to be sorry about. Anyway, it's over. Gone, _fini_, as the French would say. What's important now is finding a way out of here."

If only it were that easy. Underneath the words, which he'd invested with as optimistic a tone as possible, his thoughts whirled in a dark vortex. There wasn't much time. If it were poison that was sickening her, similar to the one that had dispatched Olivier, and his recall was as good it ought to be, then they had a window before them of perhaps three hours at most before its effects were fatal. They needed to leave, and fast.

By what escape route? The window through which he'd entered was out of the question. She likely was too far gone at this point to negotiate it, and he couldn't carry her down unassisted. The police, then, a call to the local constabulary? Ah, but one never knew for certain, in a clannish town like this, its blood ties and relations going back for decades if not centuries, whose side the police would take. Castagnoli must have deep pockets, if he'd managed to keep the details of his war associations submerged for this long. No telling how many of Pramaggiore's finest were on his payroll. Or members of his family.

Briefly he considered searching out a hiding place elsewhere in the house to which to move her until he could figure out how to get her a doctor. There he balked. To hide was the rabbit's instinct. He preferred to take the chance of confronting the hounds, a predator himself, not a prey.

That left only one option, then. Simply walking out the front door in plain sight.

The idea evoked a mirthless smile. Another parallel to _Notorious. _It was how Devlin had removed Alicia from the clutches of Sebastian and his mother.

In the meantime Laura's head had sunk more heavily against his chest. Worse, her eyes were closing again and her breathing was settling into a slow, regular pattern. He passed his hand over her face and patted her cheek with what was beginning to feel like desperation. "Laura, come on. Stay awake for me, can't you? Talk to me. Come on, baby."

The quarter of a minute it took her to respond seemed to wear on for a century. "Okay," she murmured, and sighed, and was silent again.

Damn. It wasn't working. She was slipping away, he knew it. Urging her to talk wouldn't be enough to rouse her much longer. Panic was clamoring at him to go farther, to grab her, shake her with more force, even slap her awake. On the flip side, the bonds of his love for her, coupled with his inbred courtesy towards women, made him shrink from handling her roughly. Especially now, when she needed him most, his dearest love relying on him to take care of her, to get her out of this…

No, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not even to save her life, he couldn't. There had to be another way.

Get her up and walking. That was what Devlin had done with Alicia. Across the room room, step by step, until she was alert enough to dare the hallway and staircase.

For Cary Grant as Devlin, a difficult task; for him, much easier. Bergman had been a tall woman, at five foot ten only three inches shorter than her co-star. But Laura was still the slip of a lass he'd characterized her at his first sight of her, a head and more shorter than he, many pounds lighter. Never had the disproportion in their sizes seemed as great an advantage as it did right now.

He shifted her in his arms so that she was sitting nearly upright and scooted her forward to the edge of the bed. It was the right thing to do, he realized immediately, for she stirred and blinked up at him. "Where are we going?"

"Walking might help you wake up. Then we'll see what's to be done next. Hang onto me, my love. Ready? Here we go."

At first it seemed the remedy he'd hoped for. Even with both of her arms wrapped around his waist, he had to bear most of her weight, but that was all right, as long as she kept moving. And it heartened him when she finally spoke on her own initiative, never mind that her voice was slow and slightly thick…and the question she posed was difficult. "Something's wrong with me, isn't it?"

"Nothing that a little exercise and fresh air won't cure."

"Remington." It was a reproof. "You're scared. Tell me why."

They'd finished one circuit of the room and begun another before he replied. "I think they've given you something. Probably snuck it into your coffee as soon as they discovered those papers. Your first instinct was on target, as usual."

"What did they give me?"

"I don't know what it's called. But I might've seen it kill a man, years ago. If I'm right, you need a doctor. Now."

"So that's why Benedetto brought me up here when I started feeling sick. They're waiting for it to kill me?"

That was his Laura, never flinching at the hard truths. His answer was equally blunt. "It appears so."

"Then they'll be watching me until they're sure the job's done. How'll we get past them? I won't be able to outrun them."

"Perhaps we can steal from _Notorious_ again. The end sequence, this time."

"Leave by the front door?"

"He's entertaining his neighbors and cronies and political allies, not to mention the provincial president and assorted influential government types. I don't imagine he'll want to offer us violence in front of them, do you?"

"You've got my vote. But we need to go now." He could feel the effort she made to stand straighter, not to lean on him so heavily. "While I still can."

They made their halting way to the bedroom door. In front of it they paused. He was fighting to quell his dismay at how pale she was, at the shadows ringing her eyes, at her general shakiness. What he wanted instead was to draw strength from her courage.

Tenderly he lifted her face to his with his free hand. "Come here," he whispered, and bent to kiss her lips.

Her mouth was soft beneath his; she nestled against him for the duration of the kiss. And when it ended, and she opened her dark eyes to gaze up at him, the trust he saw there brought a catch to his throat.

They let the moment spin out. Then she said, "We'll make it out of here."

"Hell, yes, we will. Come on."

They slipped through the door. Beyond the bedroom, a gallery stretched the length of the second floor. At either end of it was a staircase that descended in dramatic fashion, until the two branches met at a wide central landing. From there the main trunk, impressive in its polished mahogany, led straight down to a grand foyer.

The foyer was alive with chatter, with laughter, with knots of people forming, breaking apart and re-forming.

The Steeles inched over to the gallery railing. "Do you see Castagnoli down there?" Remington whispered. "Point him out to me."

A rapier-slim, sixtyish man with the posture of a grandee and icy gray eyes: that was Castagnoli. He was at the left of the stairs, nearest the dining room, deep in conversation with three other men, one of whom was the provincial president, Nicolas Giamberto.

"And Benedetto?"

The secretary—surprisingly fair, both his skin and hair--was circulating with Amanda Castagnoli on his arm. While the Steeles watched, he bent to catch something Signora Castagnoli was saying, and threw back his gleaming blonde head, laughing.

A gust of anger shook Remington. It was the chilling ruthlessness of the entire proceedings that undid him. That man had left Laura upstairs to die alone and in misery. And yet he could mingle with the crowd so casually--! And laugh and sip champagne in complete unconcern for what he had set in motion in Laura's bedroom--! It took all the self-control Remington possessed not to spring on the bastard, to grab him by the throat and slowly, with great pleasure, choke the life out of him.

He would have, too, if Laura hadn't needed him just then.

Her expression as she scanned the foyer was apprehensive. "A hell of a lot of people between us and the door," she remarked. The slur in her words was more pronounced than ever.

"Don't think of them as obstacles. Think of them as our audience. Onward."

They began to travel down the left-hand staircase. By now the last of her energy was ebbing away; the poison was slowly but surely shutting her body down. Remington could feel it in the slackening of her arms around him and in her shuffling steps. On one stair she stumbled and clearly would've fallen headlong to the bottom of the flight if he hadn't been there, supporting her.

Determination and surrender were at war in her face as she looked up at him. "I don't think I can," she whispered.

"You're doing fine. Come on, me darlin'. You can do it."

But at the landing she only managed a few steps before she foundered against him altogether. "Remington…I can't."

It was an admission of defeat unlike any he'd ever heard from his wife, the fighter.

"Sh, it's all right." Out of the tail of his eye he registered the attention they were beginning to attract from Castagnoli's guests. "Your part's over. Leave the rest of the work to me."

The noise behind him was lessening. Conscious of the eyes on them, he stooped over Laura so she could slide her arms around his neck, then ran his hands along them in a caress. Normally he would have done anything to prevent exposing this private a moment, their love for one another, death at work in her, the loss of dignity she would suffer in being carried out in front of this many people. But to save her he would use it as a weapon, as theater. Let this elegant group witness firsthand the shape in which Castagnoli had left her. Let them see the man's brutality, up close and without camouflage.

After gathering her up he cradled her for a moment, cheek against her hair. Not theater, that. Need. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"We're off, then."

The vestiges of talk dwindled and died as he turned and started down the final flight of stairs. Naturally. It wasn't every day that a man in an impeccable dinner jacket and a woman in a stunning evening gown, but shoeless, presented such a spectacle. At least not in Los Angeles. Evidently things were no different in Pramaggiore.

Neither Castagnoli nor Benedetto were in sight. But he spied Amanda Castagnoli, her back to him, in the midst of a group collected around the door to the salon.

At the bottom of the stairs, he pressed his lips to Laura's forehead. "Still with me, my love?" he whispered.

"Mm-hm."

"Now's the tricky part. I've got to get you past them. Hold on to me tight and stay awake."

He squared his shoulders. Then, head high, he stalked towards the door. His eyes swept over the guests in the foyer, fierce, challenging. Make a move towards her, his expression said, and I'll kill you.

It was a dead-on reflection of his thoughts. And it wasn't a pose. He'd have fallen upon with a growl of rage and torn to pieces any man who dared try.

No one did. Instead the crowd parted before him like a wave. Motionless, staring, heads swiveling in his and Laura's wake, whispers following them.

No sign of opposition.

Not until Castagnoli, drawn by the strange silence from wherever he'd been, rushed forward with Benedetto at his elbow. "Stop right there," he snapped in Italian. "Who are you? What the devil are you doing with Miss Vance?"

They'd forced him to a halt. Now for the confrontation, the battle whose prize was Laura. They wanted her to die. He needed her to live. Remarkable, how that sort of fear hardened one's resolve, made every lesser consideration recede into the background.

He gave his reply in English, so that Laura could follow what was happening. His voice rang in the room's stillness. "I might ask you the same question. Care to enlighten me--and your guests--as to why you left her upstairs, unattended by a doctor, when she was obviously suffering from more than an attack of indigestion?"

"Do you know who you're speaking to?" Probably Castagnoli had made a lifetime's practice of intimidating with those frosty eyes. "I assume not, or you wouldn't have broken in here in the first place. But you still have a chance to walk out alive. Put Miss Vance down, and you'll come to no harm."

"You go to hell." And Remington began to stride around them.

Immediately they circled him, barring the way with a menace that was perhaps invisible to every one else in the room, edging towards him.

So that was the strategy. Cast him as a criminal in front of all these witnesses, cut off access to the door, drown out his voice. Separate him from Laura. Closet him away somewhere. Abandon her to finish out the death sentence they'd pronounced for her.

Not unless he'd drawn his last breath, they wouldn't.

"—if you'll just come away quietly," Castagnoli was saying. "Miss Vance seems to be all right, which will be a circumstance in your favor, as long as you cooperate now. Give her to me." And he began to reach for Laura, his hands brushing her arm.

The snarl that had been forming on Remington's lips exploded into words as he snatched her free of Castagnoli's grasp. "_Keep your hands off her_."

"Someone help me restrain this man," Castagnoli shouted. "Benedetto, call the police."

"By all means, call the police," Remington taunted Benedetto. "Be sure and offer them refreshments when they arrive. The coffee in Miss Vance's room, for instance."

The secretary arrested in mid-step, his glance flicking from Remington to Castagnoli.

Castagnoli was made of sterner stuff and barked rapid-fire orders. "Now, Benedetto!" To Remington: "Set her down and step away from her." Over his shoulder: "Amanda, come help Miss Vance. She's obviously feeling quite ill." And to Laura herself, with a pseudo-fatherly smile: "Don't be frightened, my dear. You're safe from him now, whoever he is. We won't let him harm you."

Remington felt Laura cling more tightly to his neck. A sign of fear? More likely a signal, telling him that she was alert to what was going on. No doubt Castagnoli believed the opposite. But perhaps it was precisely the weapon they could use right now. He'd take the gamble, anyway.

"Stay where you are, Signora Castagnoli," he said sharply. "Your husband's trying to throw up a smokescreen to hide what he's been up to. In case you haven't noticed, it's not me she's afraid of. In fact, she's coming with me willingly." He softened briefly as he gazed down at Laura. "Aren't you?" he said.

Though heavy eyelids she returned the gaze, dauntless as ever. Then she raised her head to look at Castagnoli. From somewhere within she summoned up the strength to speak clearly and firmly. "Yes."

Electrifying, the effect the single word had on the onlookers. The tentative, questioning tone of their low chatter had changed. There was doubt now, even suspicion, in the faces that turned towards Castagnoli.

Who was still prepared to bluff it out. "She doesn't know what she's saying. She's going nowhere, most certainly not with you. The girl is ill, I tell you, and a guest in my house--"

"This girl," Remington said, "is my wife. And I'm taking her out of here. She's ill because you've given her something—God alone knows what—and she needs help before she dies of it."

An outburst of exclamations, a sudden flurry of movement. The provincial president, Giamberto, was shouldering to the forefront of the circle surrounding the Steeles and Castagnoli. Castagnoli's cry cut thorough it all. "That's preposterous!"

"Is it? She got a little too close, didn't she, to your dirty secret? So you had to make sure she could never tell, the same way you did with Ava Rivaro!"

"Sandro?" Giamberto demanded. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Shall I tell him, Signor**Castagnoli**, or shall you? About Vittorio Castagnoli, and his agreement with the Nazis, and how you and he betrayed every inhabitant of this valley so you could hold onto those vineyards in the Piedmont?"

A collective gasp—or was it a hiss?—sounded in the room. Fear showed in Benedetto's face. And Amanda Castagnoli stood frozen in place, eyes fixed on her husband.

Giamberto was scrutinizing Remington, his mouth hard, unsmiling. "Those are serious charges. Are you prepared to back them up?"

"I am, Mr. President—or rather, my wife is. She has proof."

"How can we be sure she's really your wife?"

"Matching wedding bands. Take a look, if you'd like. She knows too much, so they've poisoned her. It'll kill her if I don't get her to a doctor."

Remington would never be sure what Giamberto saw as he glanced down into Laura's face, but whatever it was, it negated the need for further discussion. "You're correct, there isn't much time," the president said. "You have a car? I'll accompany you out." And with a nod of the head he signaled his entourage to watch Castagnoli.

Swiftly they made their unobstructed way to the entrance doors. "Still with me?" Remington asked Laura in an undertone.

There was a measurable interval before she replied. "Mm-hm."

"What's the proof your wife uncovered?" asked Giamberto.

"A Pramaggiore parish register from back in Father Banca's tenure. The current priest doesn't know it exists. Father Banca knew of the relationship between Vittorio Castagnoli and the Nazi occupiers…was privy to the deal the Castagnolis made with them. He hadn't quite the courage to denounce them openly, but he did hope they'd someday be brought to justice."

"And the other young lady? Miss Rivaro?"

"She was researching her family's roots in Pramaggiore and serving as Signora Castagnoli's secretary when she stumbled across the register entirely by accident. We're not sure what happened after that, except she's disappeared. She's the steady, reliable sort, Miss Rivaro. Not one to take off without notifying her family of her whereabouts. My wife's afraid that Castagnoli's done away with her."

By now they'd reached the rented sedan; Giamberto held the door while Remington maneuvered Laura into the passenger seat and spread his discarded topcoat over her. "And you, sir?" Giamberto asked. "It's not clear to me why you or your wife should have been concerned in this."

Remington straightened. Underneath, he was chafing at the idea of precious seconds melting away—seconds that he needed to get Laura on the road--but concealed it as best he could. "We're private investigators, hired to look into Miss Rivaro's disappearance. Remington Steele Investigations." Hastily he scribbled the phone number for the Villa Montreuil on the back of one of their business cards. "You can reach us here."

He had parted unceremoniously from the other man and was rounding to the driver's side when a sudden thought struck him. He turned and called to Giamberto. "You'll be able to use my wife's information, won't you? And see they're put away?"

Even in the darkness he caught the cold gleam in the president's eyes. "Don't trouble yourself about Signor Castagnoli," Giamberto replied. "If we confirm what you've said is true, we shall know how to deal with him."

Never mess with Ligurians, Armand Lortie had once said. It was a warning that applied to relationships between them as well as to outsiders, seemingly. Thank God Laura was shut of them for good.

Just in case, he monitored the rearview mirror as he sped off towards the road to Ventimiglia,. At least now he could focus on actively engaging her again. "Awake?" he asked. "Talk to me. It'll stop you falling asleep."

For the first time he heard irritation in her reply. "…It's so hard."

"I know it is. I know. We'll make it simple. How about this? Count backwards from a thousand. Okay? I'll do it with you. One thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine, nine hundred ninety eight…"

It took her that long to join in. "…nine hundred ninety-seven…nine hundred ninety-six…nine hundred ninety-five…"

"…nine hundred ninety-four…nine hundred ninety-three…" He had to speak more slowly in order to match her cadence. "Nine hundred ninety-two…nine hundred ninety-one…Keep going, you're doing fine…"

During the ten kilometers south to Ventimiglia, she counted. Now and then she trailed off, or halted entirely, so that he had to cue her to resume. But each time she rallied at the sound of his voice and picked up where she'd left off.

After a brief hesitation he bypassed the hospital in Ventimiglia and floored it for Menton instead. An additional ten kilometers. He could only pray fervently that he wasn't jeopardizing her by attempting it. But somehow the idea of entrusting her life to anyone within range of Castagnoli's influence terrified him. Symbolic though it might be, it offered an illusion of safety, the idea of carrying her over the border from Italy into France.

The coastal road. They were minutes from picking it up when Laura fell silent.

For a beat or two he waited. Nothing. "Eight hundred seventy-eight, eight hundred seventy-seven…Come on, baby," he urged. "You can do it. Eight hundred seventy-six…eight hundred seventy-five…"

No reply.

By the dash lights he could see she'd turned her face aside from him and closed her eyes. "Laura?" His hand groped for hers beneath the overcoat he'd tucked around her. "_Laura_?"

Several heart-pounding seconds stretched out. Then she stirred and returned his pressure. It was nowhere near the usual firmness of her grip, but it was unmistakably there. "What?" she said drowsily.

He was going the wrong way about it. He could have kicked himself for his stupidity as he realized it. Counting was having a soporific effect on her, rather than the reverse. Of course. Wasn't it to cure insomnia, to fall asleep, that people counted sheep?

Thank God that his blunder hadn't pushed her over the brink.

"Let's talk about something else, eh? Tell me about--" he fumbled, drew a blank, before inspiration dawned "—cases. The ones you've solved. Take me through them, step by step."

"...We'll be here for hours."

"Your most memorable ones, then. Challenging, frustrating, rewarding, it doesn't matter."

There was silence again, but a glance at her showed it was because she was ruminating over the idea. When she began to speak, it was with the same pauses and gaps as before. "…Five years ago. Security for an event. Murphy and me…and our plan was brilliant. One glitch, though…The client wanted Remington Steele on site, personally, supervising."

"No doubt it happened quite a lot in the old days."

"…No, we had a rule. We refused cases like that. But this time…lots of great publicity around the event…coverage by _People Magazine_…Imagine the possibilities if we pulled it off."

"Rather like the Eitschl case."

"…We couldn't turn it down…Protecting three million in gems. Royal Lavulite."

He was beginning to understand where she was going with this. "I've heard of it. Resembles pieces of the sky, doesn't it?"

"Murph and I…we thought, how hard could it be, making Hunter believe Steele was real for one night?...But wouldn't you know it?…There was this guy…arrived on the scene, impersonating a South African agent…kept popping out of nowhere…screwed things up…"

"Ah. Nasty character?"

"…No, just cocky…insufferable…persistent…infuriating…"

"Sounds like a fascinating chap." They were approaching the border now; he slowed the car in anticipation of the requisite official procedures. "Tell me more about him."

"…Did I remember to include 'conceited' in the list…?" Incredibly, there was a hint of laughter in her voice.

"It must've slipped your mind."

During their border check-in he kept a watchful eye on her. Now and then he squeezed her hand or touched her cheek to ensure she remained responsive. As soon as they were away, he prompted, "Go on, my love. Tell me how it ended."

A sigh, a slight struggle, as she focused again.

"…It didn't. The guy stepped into Steele's shoes…It was a nightmare at first…but he turned out to be a big help in nailing Hunter as the thief…so I sort of asked him to become Steele as a full-time job…At first I thought he was only hanging around for what he could get…from me…from the business…before he left me. But he never did."

"Didn't he?

"…Once…to find his real name. And I left him once, when he found it…Not for long, though. He came home to me."

This time it was she who reached for him; their hands met and clung.

"I wager you'll never be rid of him now," he said.

Traffic had become heavier since they'd entered Menton's environs. He had to bite back an angry exclamation as he jammed on the brakes. It was all the worse because they were within a few kilometers of the hospital—so near in physical distance, so distressingly far in terms of timing.

In an effort to conceal his agitation from Laura, he asked, "How does it rate, that case?"

"Hm?"

"The criteria I mentioned earlier. Rewarding, challenging or frustrating? How does it rate?"

"…I believe you already know the answer to that."

"All of above?"

"…All of the above--"

The rest of her words were lost in a sudden hiss as she sucked in a deep breath. The enveloping coat heaved with the tremor that shook her.

Here it was at last: the sign, the symptom, he'd been dreading. He put the question to her, though he already knew the answer. "Laura? You all right?"

"…Cold…"she whispered between chattering teeth.

She couldn't stop shaking after that, not even when he'd cranked up the heater as high as it could go, not even when he'd trained the vents on her. Of course he already knew that external makeshifts were just that, makeshifts. The cold was beyond his reach, its origins deep inside her, where the poison was progressing insidiously towards its goal.

The final moments of the drive merged into a featureless blur. The only element that had substance and color was Laura beside him, shivering, while he tore recklessly through the streets, blasting the horn, cursing beneath his breath. The entrance to l'Hôpital Saint-Sauveur gained at last, he snatched her up from the passenger seat, coat and all, and simply dashed inside with her.

And then he was in the center of the admittance ward, shouting: "_Au secours_!_ À moi _!_ On a empoisonné ma femme_!"

A rush of running feet stopped at his side. Someone wheeled in a gurney. Someone else removed Laura from his arms and laid her on it. A third someone covered her with a blanket and strapped her in, and she was borne off on a tide of white uniforms, away from him.

It was over.

He sagged against a counter in abrupt, abject weariness.

There was no sense of accomplishment in him. It would be hours before he would know whether it was all for naught, the brazenness with which they'd faced down Castagnoli, their headlong flight for the border. Hard to credit, but there was a real possibility it would end up as wasted action and emotion, a brief drama that had served as a distraction from the inevitable outcome, but done nothing to prevent it.

Another point of similarity with _Notorious, _whose conclusion was ambiguous, the viewer never knowing for certain whether Alicia lived or died.

He ran a hand over his face and back through his hair. He had never felt so drained, so wholly destitute of hope or optimism, in his life.

A nurse was approaching; he turned to meet her. As he did, it occurred to him that he had succeeded in one thing he'd undertaken.

Laura. His last glimpse of her, as they'd maneuvered the gurney around a corner and into a corridor at a right angle to the one they'd taken her down. Her brown eyes, open, aware, fastened on his face as long as he remained within her line of sight.

CONTINUED IN PART 4


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

"Mr. Steele?" a voice said in French. "I'm called Dr. Ouellette."

Remington looked up. He didn't realize it, but few who knew him would've recognized him tonight by his posture, the bent back, lowered head, the elbows resting on his knees.

No one, that is, but Laura, who had seen it before.

At well past midnight, he was the sole occupant of the waiting room that opened off the emergency ward. They'd ushered him to it after he'd filled out paperwork and answered question upon question upon question. It was drab, the little room, with scuffed linoleum and heavy, close-clustered furniture. Not that he'd had any say with regard to his surroundings. He'd come here because it was where they'd directed him to go. Here he would stay until they told him what would happen next.

His first hours were spent pacing up and down while he ransacked his memory for details of the deathbed scene he'd witnessed long ago in San Remo. It was the lapse of time he couldn't get a handle on. Had Olivier collapsed right away, or was there a period where he'd seemed normal? When had the stomach cramps started? How long between the first complaint that he was cold, and his drifting into a sleep from which he'd never awakened?

No matter how hard Remington tried, he couldn't come to any definitive conclusions. Too much time had passed; he hadn't been paying sufficient attention in the first place. So much for drawing reassurance about Laura's survival from what he remembered. And anyway, wasn't that the job of the medicos who'd taken her from him, to reassure him? Why the bloody hell didn't they send someone talk to him?

Was it because they had no hope to offer?

Twice he'd stormed out in search of an authority figure from whom he could demand answers. A doctor, a nurse, even a stretcher-bearer would've done. But the corridors were deserted, the official-looking desk unmanned. Unwilling to wander far from his starting point—what if they came for him, and he missed them?--he'd retreated to it. Caged animal: a cliché, but in this case, apt. It was what he felt like. In his distress he could've pounded the walls until his knuckles bled, broken the furniture apart with his bare hands.

But eventually anger had exhausted itself. A different sort of blackness had taken over. Unbidden, it had carried his imagination into bleak channels.

How did one prepare oneself to meet the bearer of bad news, presuming that was what he would eventually hear? He hadn't any practice at it. Did one stand when the doctor, or nurse, or whoever it was, approached? Was a handshake expected? Polite introductions? Small talk? Or did one remain seated, silent, waiting to receive what the messenger had to say? Perhaps it wouldn't happen here at all; perhaps they would take him down the hall, to where Laurawas, and show him, rather than tell him…Well, he'd always been one for whom actions meant more than words…

He was still trying to work it out when the doctor addressed him from the doorway.

He rose before he knew he was doing it. Peculiar, the way emotion ebbed completely now that the moment was upon him, leaving pure instinct in control over his physical and mental faculties.

But Dr. Ouellette waved him back into the chair. "Please, don't get up," he said, taking a seat himself. "Content yourself. Mrs. Steele is resting comfortably."

His expectations confounded, Remington could only stare open-mouthed. His voice, when he finally found it, came out in a croak.

He cleared his throat. "Then she's all right?"

"She will be. She's no longer in danger, as you'll see for yourself in a few moments. And superb care, which she'll obtain from me, will restore her to perfect health." Head on one side, Ouellette studied him. "You were right in suspecting she was poisoned. But I'm curious. How did you know?"

It took a moment for Remington to spur his sluggish thoughts into motion. "Ah…the symptoms. They reminded me of ones I'd seen before. Cold in the feet and hands, severe stomach pains. She's really all right?"

"Assuredly, or I wouldn't be here talking with you. Your wife's fortunate you recognized the symptoms for what they were. Usually the pains are mistaken for indigestion and treated accordingly. And it proves fatal."

Remington swallowed. "What is it, this poison?"

"Something very ancient, native to the Ligurian Alps. In English you would say it--" Ouellette switched smoothly to that language—" 'the silent, beautiful, death-dealing lady'."

" 'La belle assassine silencieuse'. How does it—?"

"—Kill? Administered over a few days, it builds up in the stomach until the blood vessels begin to absorb it. Hence the pains. From there it progresses through the blood stream until it stops the heart." Something must have changed in Remington's expression, for Ouelette leaned forward to pat his shoulder. "Be tranquil, Mr. Steele. I've conquered it. And you, you've done your wife enormous good. Had you not watched to make sure she didn't sleep, I couldn't have saved her." With the air of a man who had no more time to waste, the doctor got to his feet. "But I'll take you to her now, yes?"

It was as they were striding through the silent halls that Ouellette made an observation that arrested Remington's attention. He was only half-listening to the doctor's description of the treatment for the poison, something about transfusions and glucose solutions and IV drips and Lord only knew what else.

Then Ouelette said: "You must have made a powerful enemy in Liguria, Mr. Steele."

Astonished, Remington could only throw him a swift, questioning glance. He'd revealed nothing to anyone at Saint-Sauveur about where they'd come from tonight. He was willing to stake his life that Laura hadn't, either.

Ouellette looked back at him, a glitter of…something…in his eyes. "My mother was born in Parnassio. A very old family. The Galbusera-Colombi." A pause to allow that to sink in. "I shouldn't go back to Liguria if I were you."

A friendly warning? An implicit threat? It was hard to decide which. Under ordinary circumstances, Remington would have reacted to the latter either by laughing outright in the other man's face, or countering with a threat of his own.

What restrained him was the recollection of Laura on the landing at the _casa_ Castagnoli. The fear in her eyes when she had sagged in his arms and admitted that she couldn't, literally, take another step.

Be damned to all of them, these Ligurians.

"No," he said slowly. "No. I don't suppose we ever shall."

* * *

Laura looked just fine to him by the dim incandescent light in the private room into which they'd moved her.

Looked beautiful, as a matter of fact, her hair only a little tousled, right cheek pillowed on her right hand as she slept. Not even the IV tube secured by surgical tape to her left hand could alter the image of peace.

Twenty minutes, they'd allotted him. And don't waken her, they'd ordered him.

So he bent and softly brushed her other cheek with his lips. And with two fingers at the side of her neck took her pulse. Just to feel it. Just to make sure.

A straight chair stood against the wall at the foot of the bed. He dragged it to her side. Sat uncertainly down and watched her.

No doubt if he were a character in some sub "B", black-and-white movie from a lesser studio, or one of those wretched, American daytime dramas, he'd sit here and deliver an impassioned soliloquy before his sleeping wife. Overflow with declarations of undying love. Verbally air his fears of losing her. Beseech her to get well for his sake, because he couldn't live without her.

Not that it wasn't true. But he wasn't the sort of man to express those truths aloud—or, rather, not precisely in those words. Nor was Laura the sort of woman to hear them with anything but a quizzical glance and a query as to whether he was feeling all right. Once, long ago, she'd even made a joke of it. The night Carl had shot her in the back, as he recalled. The memory of how much he'd said when he thought her past hearing still had the power to summon a flush of embarrassment from him.

Ah, she'd learned how to read him since then, his lovely love had. She had the ability to pierce the protective armor he wore, would probably always wear, and perceive the emotions underneath. She would know what they meant, the flight across almost six thousand miles to reach her…the breaching of Castagnoli's stronghold, unarmed and without back-up, to rescue her…the race through two countries to bring her to the hospital he judged was the safest place for her.

Laura would know what the deeds meant. She knew it already.

The idea of parting from her to spend the night at the Villa Montreuil was painful, though it was a separation of only a few kilometers. He'd experienced it before, when Roselli had broken into their office and attacked her, and he'd had to leave her home alone the following morning. It was a physical thing, that ache. A wrenching away of a part of himself, regardless how temporary? Yes, that was exactly what it felt like.

Even so, he rose at the end of the permissible twenty minutes and kissed her cheek again, hovering there longer than he had the first time. Her hair was soft beneath his hand as he stroked it.

On the other side of the door, taking a last look at her before he shut it behind him, he halted.

In this place so far from home, she was friendless, solitary. Vulnerable, should anyone try to harm her. Defenseless.

He was all she had.

Just as she was all he had.

He slipped back into the room. The width of the hospital bed was something between a single and double mattress in the States. Certainly they'd shared closer quarters than these in the past. The one-man sleeping bag on their trip to Howardsville came to mind. So did the cot at the rescue mission in which they'd taken refuge earlier this year, during the forty-eight hours they'd played dead.

Moving with his trademark, carefully cultivated noiselessness, he removed dinner jacket and tie, belt and shoes, tugged his shirt out his waistband and unbuttoned it.

Then he climbed onto the bed with his overcoat as a blanket. He didn't take her in his arms, but settled himself as close to her as he could without touching, his head resting next to hers on the pillow.

* * *

The November heat wave on the Riviera wore on. Temperatures held steady in the high eighties; the skies were a daily, relentless cerulean; the autumn rains that should have already begun confined themselves to the mountains miles to the north.

At the Villa Montreuil, the Steeles were finding afternoon relief in the swimming pool. And Remington was having trouble reining Laura in.

First thing, she'd challenged him to a race--itching, he could tell, to assert over him the prowess she'd acquired in triathlon training. "You're ten inches taller than me," she coaxed. "That's a built-in handicap for me right there. And I'll give you half a lap's head start. What do you say?"

What he wanted to say was, no, not a chance, that although this morning's examination had confirmed her heart hadn't been damaged by the poison, Dr. Ouellette had cautioned her against exerting herself too strenuously too soon.

What he did instead was flip over onto his back and float, regarding her with a lazy smirk. "I've nothing to prove, Mrs. Steele."

She raised her brows. "Pretty cocky, for a man who can barely breast-stroke across the deep end."

"It's one of the things you love about me, isn't it? My cockiness?"

"Cowardliness is more like it. Afraid 'the little woman' will show you up? Chicken." She splashed him.

He only grinned back at her and with a few kicks retreated out of range.

She followed. "Chicken," she repeated. "Chicken. Scaredy-cat. Scared you'll get beaten by a woman." Each denunciation was accompanied by a splash.

A minute or two of this, and he abruptly switched tactics, regaining his feet and advancing on her in mock menace. "Let's find out who the real chicken is, eh?"

Now it was her turn to back away, the splashing transformed into a defensive measure for fending him off. By the time he had trumped her--trapping her against the pool wall, fenced between his arms--she was laughing too hard to attempt an escape.

Boyish in his own laughter, he lifted her to the edge of the pool and deposited her there. "Suppose we turn some of this excess energy to better advantage."

She wrapped her legs around him. "Whose advantage would that be? Yours? Or mine?"

"Ours."

"In that case…" Her dimple deepened; he could've lost himself for hours, days, in the softness of her eyes. "Take all the advantage you want, Mr. Steele."

As he pressed her against him, he couldn't suppress a contented sigh. She was back, his Laura, as nearly herself as he could've wished.

It had never been seriously threatened, her recovery, not really. But that first morning in the hospital, they'd awakened to face some genuine anxieties. There was a possibility that _la belle assassine silencieuse_ had messed up her cardiac rhythm; Dr. Ouellette would need a full twenty-four hours before he could be certain. Even if she were clear, and Ouellette allowed her to go home, there would be strict curtailments on her activity for a while.

Nothing that would elevate her heart rate, in other words. Until the electro-chemical balance, or whatever it was, had been restored, there was danger that she could suffer a heart attack.

So they'd had to take care. In the first days it was easy; all she wanted was to sleep. He'd filled the hours without her in a way unusual for him, covering page after page in a sketchbook with studies of the harbor, the sea—and her. Enlightening, the contrast, when he contemplated how he would've behaved eight years ago in these identical surroundings. Then: Jean Murrell, carouser, womanizer, perpetually in search of night life, the high life. Now: Remington Steele, devoted husband, his excitement confined to the long walks he took in the afternoons when he needed to stretch his legs a little, always returning to the villa in plenty of time to share dinner with his wife.

No question as to which life he preferred.

The day after Dr. Ouellette released her from the hospital, Remington had received a call at the villa from one of Nicolas Giamberto's assistants. Searchers had discovered Ava Rivaro's body in a mountain ravine north of Pramagiorre.

It was news he'd have given anything to keep from Laura. Impossible to blunt its impact, however gently he broke it. But she'd taken it with exemplary calm, with only a slight tremble in her voice as she asked him to fetch her handbag. It was among the things she'd left behind in Pramagiorre. Amanda Castagnoli had had them delivered to the villa the previous day.

She had, of course, brought Julia Gittelman's phone number to Italy with her.

How that conversation played out, he would never know. All he saw on his return to the bedroom to check on her was the aftermath, tearstains, wet eyelashes. He didn't ask, and she volunteered nothing. She simply stretched out her arms for him. They'd held each other until she fell asleep.

The tragic end to the case aside, the prescription to rest did her the good it was intended to; before long she was able to get up and around. They'd celebrated that day by dismissing their combination cook-housekeeper, Madeleine Trottier, so Remington could prepare dinner unimpeded. Fresh-caught fish, the finest fruits and vegetables from the market, bread baked by hand, all to build up Laura's stamina. Out on the terrace they'd lingered over it for a long time. And when they were finished, they'd loitered longer still, curled together on the settee.

Later, a celebration of a different kind. The warmth and darkness of their bedroom. Laura's face buried in the curve between his neck and shoulder, her arms enfolding him; he inside her, almost without moving. The gentle rhythm in which they rocked, the tempo of their familiar dance slowed for once. The pleasure, the treasure, of beautiful, beloved flesh against his.

"Welcome home," he'd whispered in the aftermath of love, her face cupped at that moment between his hands.

"Welcome home," she'd replied. When she smiled, he saw in her eyes the confirmation that he'd won it, the thing he'd been after almost all the time they'd been together: her whole trust, with her heart, with her life.

Five days later, he continued to see it, along with the feisty sparkle he'd missed so much.

They resumed their water play, wringing maximum enjoyment from this, their second to last day in Menton. He remained mindful of her limits, though. With a hand at the small of her back he finally steered her towards the ladder. "You've had enough for now, I think. Out you get."

It might've been an indicator that she accepted how necessary the limits were, the fact that she neither protested nor blew up at him for bossing her around.

At poolside he wrapped a towel around her and drew her down full length with him on the chaise. Taking up a second towel, he began to dry her hair. "Not cold, are you?"

"It's eighty-five degrees, Mr. Steele. Besides, I'm depending on you to keep me nice and warm."

It was lovely, reclining in the sun, just the two of them. Soon he no longer needed the towel and let it drop. But he continued idly to smooth her hair back from her forehead, stroking its length. With a murmur of pleasure she closed her eyes and leaned her head into his palm.

There was an issue with which he'd been privately wrestling for the past several days. Now his thoughts slipped effortlessly into that groove. He didn't realize how long the silence had worn on until Laura tipped her head back to look at him. "You're awfully quiet," she remarked.

"Hm? Oh. Sorry. Didn't mean to be bad company."

"You don't hear me complaining, do you?" She added more hesitantly, "We could talk about it, whatever it is, if you want."

"It's nothing." He shrugged. "Feeling a little shame-faced."

"Not a state of mind I'd expect from you, under the circumstances."

"Yes, well." He didn't realize that with his free hand he was tugging at his earlobe, the involuntary gesture communicating as much as his words had done.

"I'm serious. From where I'm sitting, you have a lot to be proud of. I'd even call you a hero, if I didn't think it would go straight to your head."

"Cinematically speaking, I meant."

"Oh." A beat while her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "Huh?"

"I've decided, Laura. I'm swearing off films for good."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"What's happened here has made me realize. It doesn't do, this habit I have, conflating movies with real life."

"I'm not following you."

"You know what a fan I've been of _Notorious_."

"Putting up the poster the minute you moved in at Rossmore was a clue, yes."

"I've seen it over and over. Well, I don't have to tell you. Completely enthralls me every time. I've even imagined myself in Devlin's shoes. What could be more romantic, daring the worst kind of evil to rescue the woman one loves?"

Judging by the depth of the furrow between her brows, her perplexity had increased. "Okay, but I still don't get what's bothering you."

"There's nothing romantic about it. We discovered that, you and I, didn't we? You, the target of hardened killers. Trapped in their house. Coming close to dying of poison. It was…terrifying." He swallowed; for a moment the hand that had been stroking her hair lay quiescent at the crown of her head. "Ghastly, to be perfectly honest."

"I won't argue with you there. But there's another way of looking at it."

Instead of posing the question, he waited for her to go on.

"If it wasn't for _Notorious_, you wouldn't have guessed about the poison. And it would've killed me. You and your movies saved my life." Softly she rubbed her cheek against his chest before looking up at him again. "You shouldn't give it up altogether. Would it help if I admitted you've led me to an appreciation I wouldn't otherwise have for it?"

"Have I?"

"Especially the scene with the kiss, the three-minute one. The longest kiss in movie history, you said."

It still surprised him, sometimes, the amount she absorbed and committed to memory when he thought she was hardly listening to him. Meanwhile, as he watched, a faint rose color was displacing the pallor of her cheek. "Why, Mrs. Steele," he teased. "I do believe you're blushing."

"Well, it's…inspiring...that kiss. Don't you think so?"

"Mm. Not that we really need inspiration in that department. We do just fine on our own, eh?"

"We're perfect on our own." And she pulled his head--and mouth--down to hers.

She was the one to draw back, but it was only so she could slip out of his arms and climb to her feet. Beside the chaise she held out her hand to him. It was a stance he'd come to recognize since she'd assumed it on their first night together in Ireland. Taking the lead. Showing him what she wanted.

How could he deny her when what she wanted was him?

So he rose, too, pausing a moment to gaze down at her. Smaller even than usual, she was, in her bare feet, lacking the weight her body had shed while fighting the poison. But he knew better than anyone what a mistake it was to measure her capabilities by her size alone. She had the heart and spirit of a lion, had his Laura. A hundred times the inner strength, the courage, of the bravest men he'd ever known.

God, he loved her.

Already she was stretching up on tiptoe, hands clasped at the back of his neck, molding her body to his. Willingly he stooped to accommodate her. But after a while it wasn't enough, he needed to be closer to her, so he picked her up again, as he had in the pool, and felt her wrap her arms and legs around him.

Still he managed enough presence of mind to remember just why she seemed so little and light in his arms. "Feel all right?" he murmured against her lips. "Sure you're up to it?"

He saw her smile. "I'm fine, I promise. What better cure could there be for me than making love with my hero?"

Those were to be the last words he allowed her to say for a very long time.

FINIS

Next: _Steele Inseparable _VII: Wife of Steele


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